


The Christmas Cold Case

by cccahill18



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:30:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cccahill18/pseuds/cccahill18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's ideas to give John a nice Christmas don't go exactly as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Christmas Cold Case

**Author's Note:**

  * For [what_alchemy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_alchemy/gifts).



> Thanks to the Holmestice mods for once again creating a fantastic writing environment, to what_alchemy for the perfect prompts, and to [lovegoods](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lovegoods) for being a brilliant beta!

“I don’t like it.”

“You’re one to talk, considering the sub-standard quality of the jumper you’re wearing.”

“It was a _gift_ , and that’s not what I meant. I mean, aesthetically speaking, there’s nothing wrong with it, but . . .” John gently handled the ornament before him and wasn’t entirely convinced it was his imagination giving him a chill. “You’re not exactly supposed to decorate a Christmas tree with murder evidence.”

“You’re being ridiculous, John. I would have thought you’d appreciate the sentimentality of it all, and I needed somewhere to put it while I examined the cold case.”

John shrugged, having learned a long time ago that he needed to pick his battles—this really wasn’t the worst thing Sherlock had brought into the flat. He released the porcelain Father Christmas—who was absolutely _not_ looking at him—and went to the kitchen to get the snacks ready for the party that evening. If the kitchen felt substantially warmer than the sitting room with a burning fire, he chose to ignore it and get busy with the task at hand.

* * *

Nearly an hour later, John carried a platter of cut-up vegetables back into the sitting room, snatching it immediately back up from the side table near Sherlock’s chair when he tried to swipe a carrot.

“Not that I have a problem with you eating, but I’d prefer this time around if you ate from the leftovers in the kitchen.” John moved them to the opposite side of the room before sitting across from Sherlock, who made no sign of responding, much less traveling to the kitchen. He inhaled deeply, preparing to make a loud mock sigh before getting his lazy friend some food, when he nearly choked on his own breath, which quickly evolved into a coughing fit. Christ, how was it possible for the air to possibly be that cold?

“John?” Sherlock was finally knocked out of his staring contest with that hideous _thing_ on their tree.

John found he couldn’t actually respond through the shivers and teeth-clattering that came on as soon as the coughing had. Going on instinct rather than rational thought, he pulled himself out through the flat to the bathroom, half dragging himself as he went along. It wasn’t until he’d rested his head against the toilet and taken several deep, solid breaths that he could feel the panic of suffocation slowly lifting as warmth and security took its place. It took an additional moment for him to realize that Sherlock was rubbing circles on his back

“Are you alright?” It was the tone of voice, the one John heard so rarely, that convinced him to steady himself and turn his back to the toilet and face his friend. The loss of physical contact almost made him want to turn back around, but either the expression on his face was that obvious or Sherlock was slowly getting better at this emotions business, because Sherlock’s hands were suddenly massaging his shoulders.

“ _John_.”

“I’m fine.” He tried clearing his throat after hearing how very not-fine he sounded. “I’m fine.”

“Do you need the hospital?” God, he looked so earnest.

“No, really. I’m fine. I’m feeling better already.” Not a lie. “Talk to me for a bit. What’s this cold case?”

Sherlock leaned against the wall opposite John, and in the process removing himself completely from John. He was more prepared for the loss this time, and was already mentally berating himself for acting in such a manner. Which, of course, led him to wonder what had him feeling like he’d been submerged in ice water, but for the moment, at least, he’d much rather listen to Sherlock.

He, on the other hand, didn’t seem convinced by John’s words, but continued regardless. “2003. Christmas season, as you might expect. James Callahan, aged 36. Died of asphyxiation when someone decided that ornament had better purpose jammed down his throat than hanging on a tree. I suppose he or she was right—certainly had a more definitive use that way.”

“You mean to say I’ve been handling an ornament that was shoved down someone’s throat?”

“The evidence would have been contaminated ages ago, you don’t know the state of the box I found it in. You don’t need to worry about that.” The bastard actually looked proud he could reassure John.

“That’s not what I meant, Sherlock. What I mean is that I’ve been casually touching an object—the bloody murder weapon—that was forcibly jammed down someone’s throat with intent to kill him.”

“Well, calling it such would imply—”

John sighed, for real this time and wished he’d never asked Sherlock to open his mouth. He felt stronger, warmer already, and the cold attack, for lack of a better term, was making him feel more ashamed than anything as it drifted away.

“You’re disappointed.” Sherlock, whether he realized it or not, had inched as far back against the wall—and away from John—as possible.

“I’d just like to keep my Christmas free of death this year, at least inside the flat.”

“Dull.” His tone had shifted from consoling to acidic.

“I don’t mind dull sometimes. Sherlock—”

His friend was already on his feet, brushing himself off as if he’d touched something dirty. John supposed he must have handled the ornament himself, but had a feeling that wasn’t what was on his mind.

“Sherlock, _wait_ a second.” He leaned on the toilet and put a hand on the counter to steady himself to his feet. “That’s not what I meant. Let’s just put that thing away for the party and—”

“Is the _brave_ John Watson scared of a Christmas ornament?” Sherlock turned out of the bathroom towards the stairs, grabbing his coat and scarf as he went.

“Something’s not right with it, Sherlock. I don’t know what, but . . .” John paused, trying to think of the right word to describe the feeling that now seemed like more of a nightmare than real life. “It’s off, something’s really off with it, and I don’t think we should have it up for the party.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t want to disturb our friends. Can’t have them thinking we’re _freakish_. In fact, it would probably be best if you handled this on your own. Can’t trust my judgment.” And a pounding down the stairs and a slamming of the front door was all that John had left to argue with as he struggled over to the landing. What the hell was that about?

“ _Shit_.” John kicked the corner of the sofa and sat down, head in hands. Had he really gone overboard in what he said? He must have said worse before many times and not had this sort of reaction. But, he thought, what would Christmas with Sherlock be other than dramatic and decidedly not festive?

It wasn’t even as if he was opposed to the general principle of having a murder-filled holiday. If they’d gotten a call from Greg—or even if he told them in person, considering he’d RSVPed to their little party—he’d follow Sherlock in a heartbeat. But that was the two of them looking in on a puzzle, and while he himself might be sympathetic to tragedy, he wouldn’t have to take part. But throw in the “death” of an admired dominatrix or a holiday spent alone contemplating the might-have-beens, and everything was far too personal and raw for this liking. John couldn’t pinpoint exactly why that ornament had affected him like that, but whatever the cause, it had crossed the line from impersonal to far too intimate. Maybe he was just overreacting (which was seeming more and more likely) to his memories of what Christmas with Sherlock meant—really, what other explanation could there be?—but that fear remained regardless.

And now Sherlock had chosen Christmas Eve of all times to take offense. Maybe he had certain expectations about Christmas too. John groaned kicked back against the much-abused sofa. So much for thoughts of—well, no need to consider that now.

A chill ran through him again, and John’s eyes darted to the ornament on the tree. He wasn’t Sherlock’s equal by far in terms of observation of his surroundings, but he could have sworn that _thing_ had been on the other side of the tree when he’d touched it earlier. He shivered and tried to block that familiar sense of breathlessness and dread.

“This is actually bloody enough.” Putting aside his unease with the determination that came from action, he strode across the room, grabbed the ornament off the tree, flung Sherlock’s bedroom door open, and threw it inside. He thought it was kind enough of him that he didn’t hear it break. 

John slammed the door shut and went out to finish preparing the flat. He’d have a nice Christmas whether or not his flatmate lowered himself to attend.

If John had a tingle in his left hand where he’d picked up the ornament for the duration of the party, he chose not to notice.

* * *

TEXT FROM: John Watson  
TEXT TO: Sherlock Holmes  
24/12/2013 11:33:46  
Sherlock, I’m sorry. Are you coming home?

John sighed and stuck his phone back into his pocket. He’d entertained for several hours, told everyone Sherlock was just being Sherlock (even if that usually would have entailed John being by his side), and tidied up everything he could think of to clean. Sherlock’s present—which until just then had been hidden at the bottom of his closet, though he wouldn’t have been surprised if Sherlock knew what it was anyway—was now under the tree as well, wrapped carefully with the skulls with antlers wrapping paper he’d found at a joke shop by chance. He was hoping—or had hoped—that Sherlock would at least crack a smile.

He pulled his phone back out, checking for messages all the while knowing there wouldn’t be one, before placing it on the side table next to his chair. John sat down heavily and switched on the evening news. Chances were slim that he’d be able to sleep right now with the state of things, so he might as well wait up for Sherlock to return.

John perhaps absorbed half of the stories between his own worried thoughts. It was ridiculous to think that Sherlock might have gotten himself into trouble, what with his tendency to ignore texts when it suited him and the way he could handle himself in a fight. It didn’t stop John from getting increasingly uncomfortable.

The sound of a door creaking—from the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom, nonetheless—made John jump in his seat. If that bastard had snuck back in—

The freezing gust that engulfed him inside and out made him realize the truth just before he passed out.

* * *

Sherlock slid the key into the lock, taking effort to stay silent entering the darkened building that was home. Mrs. Hudson he had expected to be sleeping at this hour, but John, on the other hand . . . he should have been awake, based on the nature of his text, how recently he’d sent it, and John’s sentimentality regarding the holiday in question. Had he really miscalculated this badly? He’d hoped—perhaps foolishly so—that he and John had come to a point where they could potentially expand upon the arrangements of their friendship, though if John really didn’t care . . .

A thud from upstairs broke down that train of thought completely. Sherlock unconsciously shifted from considerate stillness to stealth. Stupid, _stupid_. He’d wasted time at the doorway thinking about useless _emotions_ when there was potentially a threat to John, and perhaps something actual rather than potential based on the noise. Chances are, he’d already given himself away coming in, but it was pointless to consider what he could have done differently at the moment.

Still—how the _hell_ how had not realized something was wrong? And with John potentially ill . . . Sherlock’s felt nauseous for a moment and fought to suppress it. This kind of thinking wouldn’t accomplish anything.

Sherlock bypassed the stairs that creaked and opened the door to the flat in the way he knew from much personal experience would create the least auditory disturbance. He paused, listening. Nothing—including no breathing beyond his own. He might have blamed the chill he felt on futile worry if he were a less observant man. Could John have been ill—likely, considering those ridiculous hours at the surgery he insisted upon—and fainted? Was it contagious and spreading to him as well now?

Thoughts of intruders aside for the moment (he must be getting far too _emotional_ himself if he’d thought John would do any less than defend himself admirably and successfully), he walked over and switched on the lamp.

Nothing ( _blownfusepurposefulcutWRONGSTUPID_ ). For the first time that evening, fear came to his open acknowledgement.

“John?” He didn’t particularly care if his voice sounded panicky. “JOHN?”

Sherlock stopped quickly on his way towards the stairs to John’s bedroom, frozen for a split second at the sight of his friend on the sitting room floor, prone, eyes closed, and the ornament John had so vocally berated mostly enclosed within his mouth. At his side as soon as his legs could cross the distance, he became distantly aware of the decrease in temperature the closer in proximity he came to John and the thing obstructing his breathing—and as Sherlock quickly observed, he _wasn’t_ breathing.

“No, no . . .” That wasn’t _possible_.

He darted to his neck and released a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. A pulse. Much slower than he’d like, and his skin was icier and more akin to that of a corpse than a live person, but his heart was still beating.

Thoughts of how and why were building themselves together in the back of his mind, though he had more primal thoughts consuming most of his thinking.

Sherlock hissed as he yanked the ornament out of John’s mouth and threw it to the side. It literally _burned_ , and a part of him was reminded of a time he’d experimented with dry ice as a child. John’s mouth didn’t look like it had suffered the same fate as his hand, but it was an alarming shade of blue . . . and still.

“John, _why aren’t you breathing?_ ” He slapped him—hard—a few times with no result, other than his head passively flopping. Quick pulse check: no change. _Damn it, John._

Not knowing what else to do, Sherlock pushed John's forehead back with one hand and lifted his chin with the other, trying to separate the personal connection from the CPR class a month ago John had insisted they attend. Breathe in, mouth down, make the seal, breathe out. Feel the chest rise. Repeat. He wasn't sure if this was right--this was John's area, not his. He went through the process seven times before he leaned back in frustration, slamming his good hand down on the floor.

Sherlock stuck his hand in his pocket for his mobile, out of options except for calling 999. He snarled as he forgot about the injury to his dominant hand and realized his phone was dead for no known reason, and stood to pace, needing some sort of outlet for the tension coiling within him. John _dying_ wasn’t an acceptable option. It was when he turned and saw that ornament that John had been so painfully right about—that he himself still couldn’t explain—that his actual rage came forth. Useless mobile temporarily forgotten, Sherlock took the few steps necessary to reach the thing and crushed it beneath his shoe, knowledge of it being crime scene evidence belonging to Scotland Yard deemed completely irrelevant.

It felt more like a rock than delicate porcelain under his shoe, and based on the way his foot was rapidly going numb, it still had the same freezing properties as before. Sherlock grunted. Before he had realized he was doing it, he pulled in image to mind from that morning—happy, alive, and hopeful in a way Sherlock hadn’t been supposed to notice. Maybe not _hopeful_ per se in the same way (pesky _feelings_ harder to delete), but Sherlock had at least wanted him to have a good Christmas. One of those things John valued that should be insignificant.

And now his _stupid, misguided_ efforts with choosing a cold case to tackle directly related to John’s holiday of choice, the holiday Sherlock had inadvertently caused John grief with in the past, had failed in the most fucking devastating way—

Suddenly, the freezing object beneath him crumbled as if it had been a normal ornament all along—or perhaps even more fragile, considering the size of the particles—and a fine dust cascaded across the room. The sight before him and the loss of the solid object below him broke off his balance and sent Sherlock sprawling across the floor.

* * *

The rush of air into John’s lungs sent him gasping and coughing, turning in onto his side almost instinctively to increase his lung capacity. Having established that he could in fact breathe again, he focused on Sherlock, crawling over to him, but with one hand tucked against his side. Had he injured himself? When had that happened?

“Sher—” He coughed again, body not yet satisfied with air intake to allow him to speak freely.

“Be quiet, John.” Apparently Sherlock agreed. He was leaning over John now, and placed his left hand down upon his chest as if he needed the confirmation that it was in fact rising and falling. He stayed still like that for the span of several breaths as if he was afraid John would stop. Eventually, Sherlock took his hand away in order to better facilitate taking off his coat, which he proceeded to throw over John. He hadn’t realized how cold he was this time until the coat started trapping in the heat around him.

“Thanks.” Well, at least he could talk again now, though he was fairly certain he still sounded winded. “Are you alright?”

“Am _I_ alright? John, you weren’t _breathing_.” Sherlock’s hand had returned, though to his side this time. The weight of it was a comfort.

Sherlock’s words, though—beyond the emotion behind them—left him feeling even more confused about what had happened. He had no idea how long he’d been like that, lying still on the floor, and he was equally clueless as to how long Sherlock had been with him. He couldn’t remember much after hearing Sherlock’s door open. However, if he focused hard enough . . .

“Sherlock, did you give me rescue breaths?”

His gaze sharpened. “Yes. You had a pulse, so I determined chest compressions wouldn’t be necessary.” He paused, looking deep in thought. “You’re not guessing. You’re looking for confirmation.”

John closed his eyes, trying to focus on the slipping ghost of a memory of intervals of heat among the overlying cold stupor. “It sounds crazy, because I’m fairly certain I was unconscious, but . . .I think I could feel it. Your mouth.” He bit his lip, the words sounding more suggestive than he’d meant them to be. Sherlock himself, to his surprise, seemed to be _blushing_. “Well. And I’m alive. If my heart was beating, getting the oxygen to my lungs would have been keeping me alive. I have no idea what happened, but that was good, what you did.”

“As if the option existed for me to stand there and do nothing.” His cheeks were still pink, and his words lacked any sort of bite.

Maybe it was the effects of oxygen deprivation, but the look Sherlock was giving him was making him feel more giddy than embarrassed. John slid his arm out from under the coat and took Sherlock’s hand in his, reveling in the warmth and smiling. Sherlock was still at first, his brows creased for several moments in thought before he finally lowered his head and kissed him. John felt like he was melting against him, and kissed him back.

It was brief and on the chaste side, but John could feel himself quickly warming even as Sherlock pulled away. He looked even pinker than before, but with a shy smile. Sherlock kept a hand on his face, which John took as a chance to twine their fingers together there. They sat there for a moment, smiling and staring, before John once again noticed Sherlock’s other hand curled against his side. John frowned.

“Sherlock, what happened to your hand?”

He scowled slightly. “It’s not important, John. What _is_ , however, is that James Callahan’s murderer is on the loose and I think I can find him.” He paused, looking down. “And I’d like you to come with me, when you’re ready. It’s been ten years, I’m sure another few hours wouldn’t matter. More if you need it, obviously,” he added quickly.

John smiled, pushed himself carefully upwards, and took Sherlock’s other hand in his free one. “Give me half an hour and some time to check this out, yeah?” He frowned slightly when he had a chance to actually see the burns on Sherlock’s hand. “Shit, Sherlock. What happened?”

“That ornament. I may have been mistaken about it.” He looked directly into John’s eyes, completely serious. “It’s not going to be an issue any longer. I promise. However . . .” The smile returned. “I could use your assistance in determining how it worked. The mechanics are unlike anything I’ve seen before, and I think it would be valuable to know more about how to handle this sort of situation should we encounter it again. If that’s something you want to do.”

John gave a soft laugh and smiled, thinking he could put a few of the pieces together that Sherlock wasn’t telling him. The man had done more than give him air, it seemed. “Yeah, of course. As soon as I have my breath back and I can clean and wrap that.”

“I am sorry, John. What happened was far from my intentions,” Sherlock whispered.

“I know.” And he did. John leaned in to kiss him again, thrilled at the opportunity and all of the future ones yet to come. He broke away, taking a few breaths, and leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s. “Merry Christmas.”


End file.
